


Every Problem is a Gift

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Office, Breastfeeding Kink, Get together fic, Intercrural Sex, Kink Shaming, Lactation Kink, M/M, Mentions of Sexual Harassment, Pranks, Public Sex, Shenanigans, Unprotected Sex, Vague Office Setting, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: “A package was delivered for you, sir,” Hughie says a bit belatedly, when Homelander arches an eyebrow at the box. “With a note.”“Well?” Homelander asks as he inspects the box, the scalloped edges of the lid and the green and pink design. “What’s it say?”Hughie swallows. “Ah. Uh. It’s kind of…inappropriate.”Homelander stills. “Read it,” he demands.Hughie clears his throat.“Enjoy this creamy mouthful, you sick fuck.”
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Becca Butcher (former), Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72





	Every Problem is a Gift

**Author's Note:**

> it started when i found donuts on tiktok that looked like breasts, and then han found the bib mentioned in this story, and well...i had to write about it. this is some fun, butcher-annoying-homelander shenanigans in a little au! 
> 
> disclaimer that all the lactation/breastfeeding kink stuff is only in relation to mocking homelander, and none of it occurs btwn butcher and hughie, just in case that isn't your bag.
> 
> big thanks to han for the beta. hope y'all enjoy!

It starts with an order of donuts. They get delivered in a fancy, seafoam green and baby pink patterned box; the name across the top is from some bakery that Hughie vaguely remembers looking at back when he and Robin were together. It was too pricey for him, but their creations had looked divine, and their Yelp page was loaded with five-star reviews. Hughie glances around after the delivery person has left, and then very carefully slips his finger under the lip of the lid. He’ll bring it into Homelander’s office right after this, but he wants to see the bakery’s work in-person since he’s never had a chance to before.

The scent of sugar and chocolate and the faintest hint of strawberry hits Hughie as he pops open the lid, achingly slow and careful. He’s ready to ogle, to ooh and aah over the confections, but he stops short when he realizes what he’s looking at.

Two donuts, yes, but with pale pink frosting across the entire top, and two additional dollops of frosting that definitely are meant to resemble _nipples_. Hughie blinks as his brain short circuits before starting again and then he hastily slips the box shut once more. He picks it up, still careful despite his now shaking hands, and makes his way to Homelander’s office door. He knocks twice, tucking the box carefully under one arm, and waits.

There’s a beat before Homelander’s voice calls out, “Come in.”

Hughie slips in and shuts the door behind himself, then approaches Homelander’s desk with the box outstretched.

It’s not that he’s scared of his boss. It’s more than John Homelander is a ruthless, cruel son of a bitch who will fire anyone at the drop of a hat. Hughie’s not entirely sure he won’t get fired just for delivering this. He had half a mind to just dump the box in the trash, but knowing his luck, _that_ would’ve gotten him fired too. At least with this, he can play clueless and dumb and hope he doesn’t have to go job hunting again. He _really_ doesn’t want to go job hunting again.

“A package was delivered for you, sir,” Hughie says a bit belatedly, when Homelander arches an eyebrow at the box. “With a note.” He hesitates a second longer before setting the box on the edge of Homelander’s desk and then fumbles for the note he stashed in his pocket. It’s a hastily scribbled thing, hard to read, and it looks as though whoever wrote it was full of rage when they did. Hughie stuck it in his pocket so he wouldn’t misplace it while peeking at the donuts, but he’s pretty sure it was crumpled up to begin with.

“Well?” Homelander asks as he inspects the box, the scalloped edges of the lid and the green and pink design. “What’s it say?”

Hughie swallows. “Ah. Uh. It’s kind of…inappropriate.”

Homelander stills. “Read it,” he demands.

Hughie clears his throat. _“Enjoy this creamy mouthful, you sick fuck.”_ When Hughie had first read it, he thought maybe it was some kind of inside joke, like the kind of shit he’d send his bro friends from college back in the day. After seeing the donuts that very clearly resemble breasts, however, Hughie isn’t so sure. Hughie looks up in time to see Homelander starting to crush the box between his hands. “Oh, uh, sir?”

Homelander is downright seething and Hughie takes a cautious step back. He watches, eyes wide, as Homelander stands and lobs the box of donuts at the nearby wall. The box hits the wall with a quiet smack, then the carpet with a dull thud, and the donuts spill onto the carpet. One is intact, but the other is squished, Bavarian cream spilling onto the floor.

“I’ll call a custodian,” Hughie says before fleeing the office. He jumps when the intact donut splatters against the glass window beside the door to Homelander’s office. As he races to his desk and dials for a custodian to help cleanup, Hughie curses whoever had the donuts delivered.

* * *

Hughie doesn’t forget about the incident, exactly, but he doesn’t think it’s going to happen _again_. For the first two weeks after the donuts, Hughie is hypervigilant with any deliveries for Homelander, but all that comes in are the usual thick envelopes and gifts from various clients. Nothing out of the ordinary. So after a while Hughie stops worrying so much. He goes about his business like usual and spends most of his time wishing he could find a different job. But nowhere pays better, or has medical _and_ dental insurance, and being unemployed just isn’t an option.

He’s in a haze, imagining what it might be like to not work in a grueling and unforgiving office environment, when the next gift arrives. It’s an envelope, small and unassuming. Usually the ones that arrive for Homelander are thick and full of paperwork that needs signatures or filing; this one isn’t quite as thick, but Hughie doesn’t think much of it. He drops it off on Homelander’s desk with the rest of his mail and goes about his day.

Hughie forgets about it until the door to Homelander’s office slams open one day and he storms out. Hughie—and the entire office, for that matter—watches as Homelander crosses the room in quick, angry strides until he reaches the elevator. He doesn’t say a word the entire time but the look on his face is easy to interpret: pure, undeniable hatred. The second the elevator doors slide shut, the office is a flurry of activity.

“Hughie, man,” Kevin says, appearing out of nowhere at Hughie’s desk, “you know what happened?”

Hughie shakes his head. “No idea. I haven’t seen him that angry since the donut thing.” Word had spread fast and quietly about the donuts even though Hughie hadn’t told a soul. Hughie stands now and looks toward Homelander’s door; it looks close to breaking off its hinges, which isn’t surprising with how often he slams it open or shut. “I’ll take a look,” he tells Kevin, since he’s one of the only other employees even allowed in Homelander’s office. Sure, he usually needs explicit permission, but Homelander _probably_ won’t yell at him.

Hughie hurries his way through the gathering crowds of his coworkers and into Homelander’s office. Nothing seems out of place immediately; it isn’t until he gets closer to Homelander’s desk that he sees the envelope from earlier. And, presumably, what made Homelander so angry.

It’s a bib, like the kind babies wear. Plain white with pink threading around the edges and a pink embroidered baby bottle on the lower righthand corner. In bubbly, light gray font, the bib reads _I’ll take a bottle of the house white._ Hughie snorts as he stares at it, mildly horrified. He thinks of the donuts, and this bib, and cringes; he forces the train of thought to stop, because the last thing he needs is to be thinking of his boss and some kind of…lactation kink.

Hughie shudders before turning around—and runs right into Homelander. “Oh god,” Hughie yelps, “I’m so sorry, sir.”

Homelander glares at Hughie. He’s shorter than Hughie, technically, but he’s broader in the shoulders and just oozes a menacing aura. Or, well, not _menacing_. More like…angry, entitled fraternity president. Scary, sure, but kind of hilarious, too. Especially given the whole lactation thing. “What are you doing here?” He growls.

“I was just checking to make sure everything was okay,” Hughie says. “Would you like me to, uh, dispose of that?” He points briefly to the bib and winces.

Homelander’s eyes narrow at Hughie. After a moment, he nods. He walks around Hughie and to his desk, snatching the bib in his fist and throwing it at Hughie. Hughie fumbles to catch it and nearly misses Homelander’s command of, “Take it to the basement and throw it in the incinerator.”

Hughie nods. “Right away, sir.” He bolts from the office as calmly as he can and then it’s a mad dash to avoid his nosy coworkers. He ends up shoving the bib in his pants pocket as he shrugs at Kevin and waves off Maeve’s probing questions. It takes him three times as long as it should to sneak his way to the elevator. Once the doors slide shut, he lets out a sigh of relief.

As he steps out into the basement, shivering at the chill, he puts a wish into the universe that whoever sent the bib steps on a Lego.

* * *

The third package arrives and Hughie is immediately suspicious.

It’s been about a month since the bib incident and work has been even worse than usual since. Where the donut incident mostly passed without huge repercussions, the bib seems to have struck a chord. Homelander is on a warpath day in and day out; he demands longer hours, better work, and yet never seems to tire himself. Hughie is run ragged. He wakes up in a daze and arrives home in a fog, barely having the energy to do more than collapse into his bed each night. He gets really good at eating while doing approximately nine other things at once.

Like checking labels on the mail for anything out of the ordinary.

Hughie sets his chow mein aside and examines the box closely. It’s a basic cardboard box but something doesn’t sit right in Hughie’s chest. He can’t open it without it being obvious that he snooped, but he doesn’t want to bear the brunt of Homelander’s anger if it’s something that’ll piss him off. Hughie drums his fingers on the side of the box and looks over the label for anything that will give him a clue.

The label is plain, too. Addressed to John Homelander, with the address of their office building. Barcodes for transport, and no business name anywhere to indicate where it’s from. Fuck, for all he knows this could be a _bomb_.

Hughie gives it a haphazard shake and thinks,  _okay, probably not a bomb._

He’s still contemplating his best course of action when a shadow looms over his desk. He looks up to see Homelander standing before him, well-dressed as ever. He stands like a fucking army colonel, back ramrod straight and hands clasped behind his back. He glares down at Hughie, but it’s probably more directed at the box.

“Open it,” Homelander demands. Heads are turning their way from other desks in the office but Hughie ignores them. He nods at Homelander’s request and then reaches for the small pocketknife he keeps in his top drawer. It glides through the packing tape easily; Hughie maybe spends more time than strictly necessary cutting the tape, but Homelander doesn’t bark at him.

Hughie pulls back the flaps of the box like whatever’s inside might jump out and bite him. He holds it open and catches a glimpse of the contents for himself before angling the box so Homelander can see. He’s not quite successful in stifling his amused snort if the death glare Homelander shoots him is anything to go by.

Inside the box is a single, round item. It’s fleshy toned, except for the side that’s pinker, redder, meant to be an areola. Homelander is seething again. His whole body seems to shake with his anger and Hughie feels real fear for a second, like he might be in actual danger. The office is so still and quiet, it’s like they’re frozen in time. Everyone seems to be holding their breath as Homelander rages.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Homelander relaxes. He shoots an unnervingly calm smile at Hughie. “Dispose of that, immediately,” he says, before striding off to his office. Hughie’s left dumbfounded after. Maeve is trying to catch his eye from across the way but he doesn’t even know how to react.

He tilts the box in his lap to better look inside. He reaches in and grabs the weird, flesh-toned ball, and stifles another snort when his fingers sink into it. A stress ball, he realizes at the slight resistance under his touch. A stress ball shaped like a breast.

Hughie looks around. Some people have turned back to their desks but Hughie ignores anyone who’s still staring. Hughie pulls the stress ball from the box and gives it a few squeezes. He actually feels better after, although that might be the amusement he feels instead of actual stress relief.

Even so, he drops the ball into the bottom desk drawer. Just in case the stress of his job ever gets to be too much.

* * *

Hughie isn’t around to receive the next gift. Homelander’s already pissed by the time Hughie gets in; Hughie can hear him shouting from across the office. Some people have their heads down, diligently working or at least pretending to be. Other people are openly ogling at Homelander’s closed door that does nothing to hide his temper. Hughie sighs. He leaves his bag at his desk and approaches the door a bit like he’s approaching his own funeral.

He’s about to knock when the door whips open. Homelander looks crazed, a certifiable madman. His normally carefully styled hair is a mess and his cheeks are ruddy with anger. The tie that is normally so crisp around his neck is undone and his temples are beaded with sweat. He’d be hot, maybe, if he weren’t such an asshole.

Hughie stumbles back when something is shoved into his hands. He grasps at it anyway, but doesn’t even have a chance to look down before Homelander is barking out an order.

“Get rid of it,” he snarls before slamming his office door in Hughie’s face.

Hughie takes a step back, then another for good measure, and finally looks at the thing in his hands. It’s a hefty wooden plaque, sleek and polished. It would look very professional if not for what it says.

_ LOCAL DAIRY FARMER _

The ‘I’ in ‘dairy’ is shaped like a bottle, and the lower third of the plaque is a pair of breasts. It’s pretty hideous, actually, and considerably more pointed than the other gifts. Hughie shakes his head as he finally heads back toward his desk.

Breast-shaped donuts were weird, but novelty confections aren’t _that_ strange. The bib was specific, but at least it made sense; there are, feasibly, parents out there who would actually put that on their babies. The stress ball veered back into weird territory but it’s the kind of thing Hughie remembers seeing at Spencer’s back in the day, so there’s clearly some kind of market for it.

The plaque is just… _strange_. No one would ever legitimately display this in their home—or at least, Hughie sincerely hopes not—and it’s not something that could be picked up at Pottery Barn or Ikea. It’s probably custom made. Some poor Etsy shop runner probably made this by hand, full of confusion the entire time.

Hughie doesn’t really know what to do with the plaque. He doesn’t feel like making a trip down to the basement again, so he wedges it into the trashcan beside his desk and hopes the custodian picks up trash before Homelander catches sight of it. He gets the feeling that this week will suck, the last thing Hughie needs is to prolong it by having Homelander spot the offending gift again.

Except then Maeve walks by and unceremoniously reaches into Hughie’s trash. She plucks the plaque out and looks it over with a smile.

“I’m keeping this,” she tells Hughie. “It’s hilarious.”

To her retreating back, Hughie calls out, “Is it, though?”

* * *

The fifth gift doesn’t actually get to Homelander right away.

Hughie is running late and it’s pouring rain outside so he’s got his head ducked down under his messenger bag, which is why he collides into a strong form in the lobby of his work. He stumbles backwards, sneakers slipping on wet tiles until a warm, calloused hand catches him by the hip. It’s a smooth and easy grab, one that would be romantic if it weren’t a total stranger and Hughie wasn’t dripping wet.

“Uh,” Hughie says.

The man smiles at him. His grin is framed by a thick beard and there’s a scar running through one eyebrow. He’s the dictionary definition of ruggedly handsome and he isn’t letting go of Hughie. Hughie’s grateful to the rain and the chill outside, because it means his embarrassed blush is indistinguishable from the flush caused by the weather.

“Easy there, love,” the man purrs in a thick accent.

Hughie’s legs get weaker. “Uh,” he says again. “I’m sorry. For running into you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The man finally starts to move away, but not before making sure Hughie can stand on his own two feet. Hughie can’t help but rake his gaze over the man, taking in his trench coat and the brightly printed shirt underneath. It’s unbuttoned far enough that Hughie can see a tuft of chest hair and _god_ , he’s really being punished today, isn’t he? He’s so caught up in staring at the man and cursing his attractiveness that he misses whatever the man says.

“Sorry,” Hughie says with a wince, “what did you say?”

The man doesn’t seem bothered. “I asked if you knew about a cunt named Homelander. Think he works somewhere around the tenth floor.”

Hughie frowns. “He’s my boss.”

“Brilliant,” the man says before shoving something into Hughie’s arms. Hughie looks down at the package and his blood runs cold. “Think you can deliver that to him then, love?”

“ _You’re_ the asshole who’s been delivering stuff?” Hughie says.

The man blinks at him in surprise. “Yes?”

“ _You’re_ the reason my life has been a living hell the last couple months?” Hughie knows he’s getting too loud. People are staring, and Ashley at the front desk is giving him her signature wide-eyed and terrified look. Hughie sighs in frustration. “Follow me,” he says before striding around the man toward one of the empty conference rooms he knows isn’t far from the front desk. He only slips a little as he strides off and he doesn’t actually expect the man to follow, but when he glances back he’s proven pleasantly wrong.

He pushes open the first door he finds and stalks inside. The man follows him in and shuts the door behind him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Hughie snaps now that they’re alone. “You think it’s funny sending stupid shit in the mail? Do you know how fucking pissed Homelander gets? And he takes it out on us, _especially_ me because I’m his fucking assistant. The amount of overtime I’ve done in the last couple months _should_ mean I have enough money to move out on my own or get a car but instead I’m too fucking tired to do anything!”

The man’s expression has slipped from surprised into unimpressed. “Homelander is a fucking prick and a sick fuck,” he says simply. “I ain’t giving him nothing he doesn’t deserve.”

“What’s your problem with him anyway?” Hughie drops his bag and shrugs out of his wet jacket, shaking excess water from his hair. “Yeah, he’s an asshole, but you’re not the one who has to deal with his tantrums.”

The man’s shoulders are tense and he’s glaring at Hughie. It’s an intense glare, but Hughie’s practically immune to looks like that these days. He does feel a little bad at least, because there’s something like genuine hurt in the man’s expression. Even so, Hughie doesn’t apologize and instead just waits him out.

“Homelander used to work with my wife, Becca.” The man speaks like it pains him and Hughie almost says nevermind, but the man keeps talking before he can. “He was a cunt back then, too, but he wasn’t the boss so he wasn’t quite so ballsy about it. He had a reputation for harassing all the girls a bit, nothing overt but not exactly an angel either, you know.”

Hughie nods dumbly.

“Becca kept telling me she could handle it, and I believed her. She was a tough son of a bitch. If anyone could knock Homelander down a peg, it was her.” The man’s gaze drops to the ground.

“Is she…?” Hughie’s voice runs out before he can finish his question.

“No, no, she ain’t dead.” The man shakes his head. “We were at a holiday party and he got a bit too handsy, too fucking friendly. I knew it might happen, she tried to warn me about what a dick he was, but seeing it happen right in front of me…” A vein bulges in the man’s forehead. “I fucking decked him and then kept going at him until security had to pull me off and escort me out.”

The man looks up at him. “Becca got fired for it, which is bullshit but what can you do. Homelander was their golden boy. We both knew it wasn’t really my fault, but she was pissed and I couldn’t ask her to stay. So Homelander cost me my wife, and I like to make his life a little bit worse for it.”

Hughie blinks, astounded. Of all the things he expected, that wasn’t on the list. “Jesus Christ,” he says.

The man grins wide and spreads his arms in a display of false confidence. “Billy Butcher, pleased to fucking meet you.”

“Hughie Campbell,” Hughie says on reflex before shaking his head. “Wait, does he actually—is he really into… _that_?”

Butcher laughs, a deep sound that comes from his belly. “You bet your sweet arse he is. Spent some time hacking into his emails when I was first plotting out my revenge, did some light digging—and I mean _light_ , barely had to scratch the surface—and voila.”

“You’re demented,” Hughie says.

“I prefer diabolical.” Butcher shrugs as if he’s not openly admitting to harassing someone who could very easily make his life a living hell. It’s kind of admirable, the sheer inability to give a fuck. Hughie’s always struggled with that; either he gives too much of a fuck or not enough and never in the passionate, “screw everyone else” kind of way that Butcher seems to have perfected.

It’s irritating, still, to know that so much of the stress in his life the last couple months have been caused by this man, but he also can’t really blame Butcher. It’s an insane plan, definitely, but it’s also unbelievably funny. Hughie looks Butcher up and down and makes up his mind.

Hughie sighs. “I can’t deliver this for you.”

Butcher looks so affronted it’s almost funny. “Why the fuck not?”

“Because Homelander isn’t here today.” Hughie shrugs apologetically. “He’s on vacation through the middle of next week.”

“Cunt,” Butcher mutters. He looks more upset about it than Hughie expects. It tugs at his heartstrings, somehow, impossibly. 

Hughie bites his bottom lip. “I may have another idea, though.”

Butcher’s gaze darts to him. A grin is already spreading across his face. “I’m listening.”

“I’m still pissed at you,” Hughie says, “but maybe you could make it up to me. By fucking me.”

Butcher doesn’t seem surprised by the offer. In fact, he steps closer and Hughie’s knees almost buckle. “How, exactly, does that help me ruin Homelander’s life?”

“We fuck in his office, obviously.”

Butcher’s grin widens to reveal his teeth, menacing and arousing in equal measure. “I like the way you think, doll.” He looks like he might step closer for a second but then he gestures to the door behind them. “Lead the way.”

Hughie lets out a soft exhale and tries to ignore the way his dick is already half hard. He nods, grabs his jacket and bag, and then hurries over to the door. This time, there’s no doubt that Butcher is on his heels; Butcher is so close it’s almost obscene, and Hughie half-expects to get mauled when they get into the elevator.

But Butcher is deceptively polite. He keeps his hands to himself even as his dark and heavy gaze rakes over Hughie like he can’t drink his fill. By the time they arrive on the correct floor, Hughie’s dick could cut glass. He barrels forward but as he rounds the corner to the open floor plan of their office, he tries to play it cool. He slows down in his walk, keeps his hands at his sides, and acts like Butcher is totally meant to be there.

Hughie can feel Maeve’s gaze burning holes in the side of his head but he doesn’t look at her. She’ll see right through him, and while he has no doubt she’ll love what he’s planning, he doesn’t want to get distracted. He leaves his bag and damp jacket at his desk, tucks the package from Butcher under one arm, and then strides off toward Homelander’s office. Butcher is still hot at his heels. When they slip into the office, Butcher wastes no time in pressing Hughie up against the door. It makes a loud thud and Hughie flushes pink at the thought of everyone hearing.

“I didn’t think this through,” Hughie realizes just as Butcher’s about to kiss him.

Butcher freezes. “You want to stop?” He starts to pull away and Hughie knows that at the very least, he doesn’t want _that_. He grips his free hand in the lapel of Butcher’s trench coat and yanks him in again.

Butcher growls into the kiss and Hughie learns quickly that he _loves_ the sensation of beard burn. He opens his mouth to Butcher and moans weakly when the other man licks into his mouth. Butcher kisses deeply, aggressively, and Hughie’s head goes foggy with arousal.

“The desk,” Butcher murmurs into Hughie’s mouth. He doesn’t wait for Hughie to respond and instead grabs him by the hips, pulling him away from the door and steering him over to Homelander’s desk. It’s neatly organized with not a spot of clutter.

Which makes it all the more satisfying to knock over Homelander’s name plate when Butcher shoves Hughie up against the desk. Another shove and the framed picture on the corner of the desk falls flat on its face. Hughie drops the package onto the desk and winds both arms around Butcher’s shoulders. They kiss again as Hughie jumps onto the desk and Butcher slots between his open legs.

“I don’t normally do things like this,” Hughie pants as the kiss breaks. He shivers as Butcher starts peppering kisses down his neck.

“You’re a natural.” Butcher skims his hand over the front of Hughie’s jeans, hot and insistent. “And I’d love to fuck you, but I don’t think we’ve got the right supplies.”

Hughie knows it’s true but disappointment rushes through him all the same. “I’ve got a plan,” he says, because he does. There’s no way he’s passing up his chance with Butcher, especially since he thinks they might part ways after this. He reaches between their bodies and fumbles with Butcher’s belt. It clinks loudly in Homelander’s empty office as Hughie gets it undone before going for the button and zipper of Butcher’s pants.

Butcher is still nipping at Hughie’s neck all the while. His beard scrapes against Hughie’s skin and he just knows he’ll be covered in red marks, from hickies to beard burn, by the time this is over. The thought thrills him, even though he knows he’ll get hounded by questions from his dad. It’ll be worth it, even if this only happens once.

Hughie slips his hand into Butcher’s underwear once his pants are undone and moans quietly at the feeling of hot, hard skin under his touch. “Fuck,” he murmurs, “you feel good already.”

“Flatterer,” Butcher murmurs. “What do you want, love?”

Hughie pushes gently at Butcher’s chest until he steps back. Hughie slips off the desk, makes quick work of his own pants and underwear by shoving them down to his knees, then he turns around. His dick presses against the edge of Homelander’s desk, the friction good but not enough. He presses his thighs together and looks back over his shoulder. He doesn’t even have to say what he’s thinking, because Butcher’s already spitting into his palm.

It shouldn’t be hot, but _god_ it is. Butcher smears his spit over his own dick and then steps closer. His cock nudges between Hughie’s cheeks first, a torturous tease. Hughie keens, overwhelmed by how badly he wants Butcher inside him, but knowing it’s not possible. Butcher teases him for a moment longer before dragging the weeping tip of his cock down under Hughie’s ass. He presses at the slight resistance of Hughie’s thighs until he slips between the soft skin.

Hughie shudders as Butcher starts to thrust. It’s rough, a little dry, but the arousal is still overwhelming. Butcher’s hands are burning hot on Hughie’s hips and the way the head of his cock nudges Hughie’s balls on every thrust is addictive. Hughie wants Butcher’s come on his skin, wants it in him, and he feels delirious with how badly he craves it.

“C’mon, love,” Butcher groans. He snakes one hand from Hughie’s hip up to his hair where he grabs it like a reign. Hughie doesn’t even mind. “Let me hear you.”

And then Butcher yanks. Hughie answers with him a throaty moan and a clench of his thighs. It’s perfect, this tightrope balance of pain and pleasure. Butcher’s hand flexes in Hughie’s hair, a steady and rhythmic pull that matches the pace of his thrusts. Hughie can’t do more than hang on, fingers grappling along Homelander’s desk for traction. His dick bumps the desk on every thrust too, and Hughie knows he’s smearing precome against the polished oak.

“Butcher,” Hughie moans as he’s forced onto his tiptoes by an especially hard thrust. “Fuck, Butcher, please.” His moan is part yelp when Butcher uses the hand in his hair to pull him up, forcing him to stand rather than bend over the desk. Hughie shudders at the feeling, the sensation of Butcher’s cock between his thighs. He wants to glance down and see if he can spot Butcher’s cock or not, but he can barely keep his eyes open.

Butcher buries his face against Hughie’s neck. The scrape of his beard is like electric shocks but the press of his lips is gentle, sweet, tantalizing. Hughie trembles with it, panting and whining as he squirms.

“God, you’re lovely,” Butcher says before wrapping a hand around Hughie’s cock. He strokes Hughie fast, wrist twisting on the upstroke. He’s still thrusting between Hughie’s thighs and he admires Butcher’s ability to multitask, because Hughie’s thoughts are fried. “Come for me, Hughie, all over that nice desk, hm?”

Hughie shakes as his body obeys without him even thinking about it. He tenses up and pushes his hips forward into Butcher’s grasp as come spurts from the tip. He watches through hazy eyes as his come lands in stripes across Homelander’s desk. Some of it gets on his knocked over name plate, on his keyboard, on the mousepad. It’s lewd and hilarious and Hughie can’t decide whether he wants to keep moaning or burst into laughter.

Butcher growls against his throat and Hughie shivers all over again when he realizes Butcher’s cock is pulsing between his thighs. His gaze is a little clearer as he watches Butcher’s come paint the front of Homelander’s desk, dripping down until it hits the carpet. This time, as Butcher nuzzles against his neck, Hughie does laugh.

“That was awesome,” he says. “Homelander’s going to be pissed.”

“Good.” Butcher places a final kiss under the hinge of Hughie’s jaw before pulling away. Hughie reaches down and yanks up his pants; when he turns around, Butcher’s already dressed again. He was so artfully disheveled before that he hardly looks different now, and Hughie knows he isn’t so lucky. However, Butcher’s eyeing him up and down again, looking faintly like he wants to eat Hughie.

Maybe this won’t be a one-time thing after all.

“What did you get him this time, anyway?”

Butcher breaks into a grin. “One of them maternity bras that’s got a fake tit in it to simulate breastfeeding.”

Hughie chokes on his laugh. “What the fuck?”

Butcher shrugs. “He’s a cunt,” he says.

“Yeah, so you’ve said.” Hughie shifts from foot to foot as neither he nor Butcher makes a move to leave. “Uh, I know this is probably crazy, but could we do this again sometime?”

Butcher’s expression softens slightly and Hughie’s heart pounds in his chest. “On one condition.”

Hughie nods. “Sure, what?”

“You can’t be working for a dick like Homelander.”

Hughie blinks. “I—I need this job. I need the money.”

“I got a job you can have,” Butcher says easily. He produces a business card from one of the pockets of his trench coat and passes it over. “My PI firm could use someone like you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

Butcher looks him up and down. “I know plenty,” he purrs.

Hughie flushes pink. “What’s the pay like?”

“Whatever you need,” Butcher counters. “Flexible hours, too. I don’t give a shit.”

Hughie swallows. He _does_ hate his job here, always has. He’d be sad to leave some of the friends he’s made, like Maeve, or Annie who works a few floors up. But he thinks of not dealing with Homelander anymore, no more of his tantrums or screaming fits or unsettling kindness that only shows itself at all the wrong times. He thinks of Butcher, who is a total stranger but has this inexplicable, undeniable pull, something Hughie hasn’t felt in ages.

“Okay,” he says. He turns around and grabs a pad of sticky notes from near Homelander’s monitor and the pen that sits beside them. It goes against every professional bone in his body not to turn in a proper two-weeks’ notice, but then Butcher reaches out and blatantly gropes Hughie’s ass. _Screw professionalism,_ he thinks. He scribbles hurriedly on the sticky note: _I QUIT –HUGHIE CAMPBELL_.

Satisfied, he leaves the sticky not in the middle of the mess on the desk. “Let me just make a call, and then we can get out of here.”

Butcher grins and nods. He lets Hughie lead the way out of Homelander’s office. The moment they step out onto the floor, someone wolf-whistles. Hughie ducks his head with a blush but lifts a hand in acknowledgement. A glance back at Butcher tells him that the other man is strutting like a peacock and it shouldn’t be so attractive, but it is.

Butcher follows him to his desk and waits patiently as Hughie calls into the custodians. Butcher shoots him a smile when Hughie politely asks the head custodian to avoid cleaning Homelander’s office until he returns, stating the request is coming from Homelander himself. Hughie signs into his work laptop long enough to fire off an email to HR that he’s quitting, with his cellphone number should they need to contact him. He shoots Maeve and Annie emails too, also with his number so they can reach him outside the office. Then he grabs his bag, grabs the picture of his dad from his desk, and opens the bottom drawer to retrieve one last item.

“No bloody way,” Butcher mutters as his gaze lands on the breast-shaped stress ball.

Hughie laughs. “Homelander didn’t want it. It’s actually come in handy a couple times when shit around here got too crazy.” Hughie tosses it in the air and catches it again. “Guess I owe you a thanks.”

Butcher doesn’t answer other than to tug Hughie into a brutal, fast-paced kiss. Someone wolf-whistles again, and this time Hughie is sure it’s Maeve. The kiss goes on just long enough for Butcher to lick at the seam of Hughie’s lips, leaving him wanting more all over again, before he pulls away.

“You are fucking perfect,” Butcher says.

Hughie can’t help but let out a semi-hysterical giggle. He keeps laughing even as Butcher pulls back and gestures toward the elevators. He can’t stop grinning as they head off, even as Maeve starts off a fucking _slow clap_ right as they get into the elevators. Moments later, his phone pings in his pocket and he doesn’t even need to check it to know who it’s from or what it says.

As the elevator takes them down to the lobby again, Hughie bumps his shoulder against Butcher’s. “I had another idea, for how to fuck with Homelander.”

Butcher’s eyes light up. “I’m all ears.”

“It’s simple, classic.” Hughie grins at Butcher. “A ‘Got Milk’ shirt.”

Butcher lets out a bark of laughter just as the doors open to the lobby. “Oh yes,” he says. As they walk, he loops his arm around Hughie’s waist and pulls him in close. He turns his head and nuzzles at the spot behind Hughie’s ear. “I’m keeping you.” 


End file.
